


Insomnia (A Softer Approach Remix)

by laireshi



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-15 23:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: Tony hasn’t slept in days, and he wants to cry or scream or beg someone to punch him and knock him out, and if Steve says they’re friends—well, Tony doesn’t have the energy to argue against something he wants quite so desperately.





	Insomnia (A Softer Approach Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Threshold Consciousness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8928652) by [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/pseuds/magicasen). 
  * In response to a prompt by [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/pseuds/magicasen) in the [Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness_2018) collection. 



> If you haven't read the original fic yet, you're missing out!
> 
> Thanks to FestiveFerret for betaing!

Tony’s staring at the circuit in front of him. Something’s wrong with it, and he can’t find the issue, perhaps unsurprisingly so. His sight is blurry and his hand, holding the screwdriver, is shaking, headache threatening to split his head open. A distant part of him realises he can’t fix anything in this state, only break it further, but he can’t do anything else, either; he’s exhausted and he needs sleep and _he can’t sleep_ and it feels like being drunk, only worse.

The screwdriver falls from his fingers; it hits the table with a loud sound that makes Tony wince.

He’s got half a mind to curl up on the cot in the workshop, but he’s been trying to sleep for days now and managed to doze off for a quarter at most, hunched over his keyboard or with documents in his lap. He didn’t manage even that in an actual bed. He doesn’t want to lie down again only for his mind to never quiet down.

Maybe if he tries to power through, keep working, he will finally just pass out and _get some rest_.

Or maybe everyone will suddenly start trusting him again, after the war. Sure. Everything’s possible, right?

Tony picks up his screwdriver and leans over the circuit again. He’s a genius. He won’t let a little sleep deprivation stop him. 

(He trashes the project several hours later, and not even freshly made coffee makes him feel better.)

***

When the Avengers alert comes, it doesn’t wake Tony; not exactly. He wasn’t asleep, he _can’t sleep_ , but he’s been gazing at nothing, thinking about nothing, just . . . neither awake nor asleep—definitely not resting.

He shakes himself at the sound, suits up, and goes to fight. So he’s tired. So what? He’s also an Avenger. He’s got a duty to go out and fight—but more importantly, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t help. Saving people, helping his friends—that’s not a duty, that’s just a part of him.

It’s the Wrecking Crew, which makes him laugh. Big danger, them. 

He flies to the scene, slower than normal. He thinks something’s off with armour controls; they don’t respond to him as well as they should.

Tony sees the rest of his team—and _Steve_ , who’s _Commander Rogers_ and not an Avenger and still somehow reassures Tony just by being there—and scans the battlefield. Somehow even that seems like an impossible task. He’s vaguely aware his flight is unsteady.

“Incoming, fliers!” Peter’s voice sounds in Tony’s comms, and he winces at how _loud_ it is. His head hurts.

He turns almost too late, sees bullets flying in his direction— _bullets?_ He’s armoured up, so . . . Probably something special about them, if not outright magical. But manoeuvring around them is difficult, his reflexes are too slow. He sees one flying straight at his RT and does the best thing he can.

Ha fires his repulsor at it.

There’s an explosion, and he falls down.

***

Steve’s yelling at him to wake up, which is entirely unnecessary, because Tony’s conscious. Figures not even being in the explosion centre is enough to knock him out for longer and let him rest. 

“’m fine,” he slurs. “Hey, Steve.”

“Tony.” Steve sits down next to him. “You’re not fine.”

“I have a killer headache, but that’s not new,” Tony says finally. “Here, listen.”

He makes his armour read his physical condition out loud: _no concussions, brain haemorrhaging, or other forms of cranial damage detected._

“I almost wish for a pain killer,” Tony says before he can stop himself. He _wouldn’t_ actually take it. But he’d prefer it if he didn’t want it.

The constant exhaustion and what feels worse than a migraine are trying, though.

Steve’s looking at him with some worry, or so Tony thinks. He’s too tired to recognise his facial expressions.

God, Tony just wants to sleep.

“Tony,” Steve says. “If you’re feeling that bad, you shouldn’t have come.”

That almost wakes Tony up. “I helped,” he snaps. “No one got hurt.”

“Out of sheer luck,” Steve snaps back. Tony sighs. All of a sudden, he can’t make himself face Steve. Because he’s right: Tony was incredibly lucky. He shouldn’t have come. He stands up. 

“You’re an Avenger,” Steve says.

Tony knows that. He also knows Steve threatened to take him off the team two weeks ago. Is this where he follows up on it? Tony’s so tired.

“There’s no place for amateur mistakes,” Steve says.

Tony nods tiredly. He can’t do it now. He just can’t. 

He flies to the Tower.

Steve’s wrong: the mistakes weren’t amateurish. They were the mistakes of a drunk man. Tony’s sober and has been for years, but at this stage of sleep deprivation there’s little difference.

Tony feels sick with himself.

***

There’s a sound, like a door opening, or maybe like someone’s steps. Tony’s not sure, and he doesn’t care. It’s not like it’s _real_. Clearly, he’s reached the hallucination stage of sleep deprivation.

There’s a hand on his arm. He doesn’t jump up, but that’s just because he doesn’t have any energy left.

“Wow, you look terrible.” Steve’s voice.

“Why, thank you,” Tony says in his best flirtatious voice. He’s not sure he manages; he sounds hoarse to his own ears.

Something weird crosses Steve’s face, too fast for Tony to identify. 

“I wanted to apologise,” Steve says.

Tony frowns. _Ah, the fight_. “I messed up,” Tony says. He hesitates. “We should talk.”

“Yes.” Steve sighs heavily. “I shouldn’t have snapped—”

“ _Not_ about that,” Tony cuts in. “Look—I’m tired, okay? I’m really bloody tired, please let me talk?”

He expects Steve to disagree, because it seems like that’s the only thing they can do together anymore, argue and yell at each other and fight and level cities around them—Tony rubs his eyes, tries to focus his sight on Steve.

“Okay,” Steve says.

“I can’t sleep,” Tony blurts out. “Like—not your usual brand of insomnia, I’m familiar with that, I know the difference. I can’t sleep.”

“Jesus, Tony.” Steve frowns. “How long has this been going on?”

Tony looks down. How long? It feels like forever, but he’s pretty sure that is impossible. He tries to think past his exhaustion, past the fog covering his brain. “Since last Monday?” he hazards a guess. 

Steve inhales in clear surprise. Does that mean it’s really been long? Tony’s not just going crazy?

“Okay,” Steve says. Tony can see him trying to think strategically. It’s Steve’s thing, after all. “Okay. Have you talked to someone?”

“Hank. Reed. Nothing.”

Steve reaches out a hand in his direction, stops himself halfway through. Tony finds himself missing the time when touches came easily to them. 

“I don’t know how you’re still standing,” Steve mutters, his eyes raking over Tony’s body as if he expects him to fall down at any moment. 

Tony doesn’t answer. He actually feels slightly better now, the ever-present headache receding. Maybe he’s just gotten so used to it he stopped registering the pain.

“Okay,” Steve says again. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m calling Strange. You’re going to let him help, magic or not.”

Tony opens his mouth to argue.

“ _And_ you won’t argue with me, Tony,” Steve says. “Look, this is serious. You’re my friend. I’m worried.”

 _Friend_ , Tony thinks. That’s different to what Steve said after the mess with the Infinity Gauntlet. Any other time, he’d call Steve on it. But he hasn’t slept in days, and he wants to cry or scream or beg someone to punch him and knock him out, and Steve saying they’re friends—well, Tony doesn’t have the energy to argue against something he wants so desperately. 

“Sure,” he says in a small voice.

Steve blinks a few times. “Right. Now I’m worried even more.” The jokes falls flat. 

Steve takes out his phone and punches in the number.

Tony’s watching him, but Steve’s avoiding his eyes as he keeps his phone to his ear, waiting for the connection.

“Wong,” he says, finally. “Is Strange—do you know when he’ll be back?” A cloud passes over Steve’s face. “Make sure he calls,” he asks. “It’s an emergency.” He puts the phone down.

Tony looks at Steve. “You know Stephen’s responsible for our entire dimension, right? I don’t think _emergency—_ ”

“Do you want to google how long a human being can go on without sleep, Tony?” Steve asks, dangerously quiet.

Tony shrugs.

The phone, still in Steve’s hand, breaks in half.

Tony looks at it. “That was supposed to be the reinforced model,” he accuses. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, sounding anything but. “Come on. Let’s get you some food. I bet you haven’t eaten, either.”

Tony wants to protest. He’s not hungry, and the kitchen seems so far as to be in a completely different country. 

Steve takes him by his elbow and leads him to the elevator. Tony still has enough presence of mind to step away—touching Steve is always nice, but he can walk, thank you very much. 

When they step out of the elevator, Steve points at the living room. “Sit down,” he says. “I’ll bring you something.”

“I can feed myself, Steve.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not arguing, but I want you somewhere comfortable for the time being. Come on.”

Tony sighs, but he goes to sit on the sofa. 

He doesn’t doze off, waiting. He wishes he could do that. Instead, he stares at his own hands, his eyes unfocusing as he tries to count all the little scars from lab work. He doesn’t notice Steve’s back until he sets a plate in front of Tony filled with fried eggs and bacon.

“Not exactly breakfast time,” Tony says, but he tries to eat. “Or is it?” He’s not quite sure what time it is, anymore. 

“Since you haven’t slept anyway . . .” Steve trails off.

Tony manages to swallow a few mouthfuls, but he sets his fork down now. He knows the eggs are organic, but he can’t really taste them. Being near Steve is nice, even now, but it’s not actually fixing any of his problems.

God, he should’ve just told him he was resigning from the Avengers. He should do it now. But he’s selfish, he wants Steve to stay next to him just a moment longer.

He leans back and closes his eyes. He’s so tired.

“I _really_ want to sleep,” he mutters.

Steve touches his hand gingerly. “We’ll fix it,” he promises, and Tony, impossibly, against all odds, believes him.

Moments later, Steve moves closer, and suddenly Tony’s in his arms, Steve’s warm, strong chest behind him. 

It’s . . . good. Tony doesn’t deserve it. He should say something, but the exhaustion wins out. It’s not like he wants Steve to push him away. Steve means safety. Steve means trust. Steve means home.

God, Tony’s really out of it. He doesn’t usually let himself think that. 

Tony’s breathing slows down. He’s quite comfortable, for the first time in ages. He wants to stay here, like this, forever.

Tony feels Steve moving, and a sensation as if Steve’s kissed his head. That’s impossible, though. Maybe Tony’s somehow dreaming . . .

Steve takes his hand in his, but Tony barely feels it anymore.

He sleeps.


End file.
